


A Sick Geralt Fic

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Sickfic, i have become a sickfic account and i am coming to terms with it, whichever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23042056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: for the witcher kink meme on dream widthJaskier comforting very nauseous Geralt and holding his hair back while he vomits.Bonus points:+ Geralt being resistant to or embarrassed about being taken care of and Jaskier reassuring him it's okay+ Jaskier rubbing Geralt's belly
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 419
Collections: Best Geralt, Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	A Sick Geralt Fic

As Jaskier would later come to learn: this was nothing at all to do with Geralt’s witcher potions, or an overdose of and everything to do with a pure, unlucky accident of the immune system.

And stubbornness, which Jaskier’s coming to believe is less a trait of all witchers and just Geralt being his usual, difficult self.

His witcher’s been abnormally quiet ( _how can you tell?_ Scoffs a sarcastic voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Yennefer) all day. Sometimes not even responding to Jaskier’s many (many) questions with a ‘hmm’. About the same time they arrive in the next small town on the road, Jaskier starts to wonder if it’s perhaps something he’s done. Except Geralt’s not been rude, or dismissive, or angry, or any of the other emotions he pretends he hasn’t got, just _quiet_. He’s not even told him to stop singing, which is always the first sign that he’s pissed off. He’s not even, in a fit of rage-fuelled pettiness, refused to alter their path and spend the night in the forest instead of at an inn.

Abruptly, Jaskier realises he’s walking alone and turns back to see Geralt’s stopped Roach some ten paces back and is examining the town they’ve found themselves in.

“That one?”

It takes Jaskier a moment to realise it’s a question, then another to look in the same direction. An inn sits squat behind two thick redwood trees, chimney puffing smoke into the darkening sky. He shakes his head, “It looks too quiet for a good crowd, Geralt. Beside-“ he takes another moment to squint at the muddied path winding away from the main road, trying to look _analytical_ , or at least like he knows what he’s talking about “-I see no hoof prints, I doubt it has very good stables for Roach.”

Geralt grunts, dismounting carefully, “Fine.”

Jaskier turns and leads on, keeping a keen ear out for the sound that his companion is following. It’s a very small town and reaching the larger, more prosperous inn takes hardly any time at all. Jaskier declares this place “perfect”- cuts his extolling of its virtues short when he sees Geralt wince at the cheeriness of his voice. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t dignify him with an answer, plodding towards the stables with nary a glance. Cold smooth coins are pressed into Jaskier’s hand. “Go. Eat. I’m tending to Roach.”

Long versed in the many ways to say ‘ _I don’t want to talk about it’_ , Jaskier does as he’s bid, easily tempted by the smell of hot thick stew and golden ale wafting through the closed windows. Inside looks invitingly hot, steam clouding the glass and the thick press of bodies dark as a thundercloud within. Still, he spares a glance back, just in time to see silver hair wink out of sight.

***

An immeasurable period of the evening later, Jaskier is fed and watered, his pockets heavy with coin, his face aching from the smile that’s been fixed son his face since he first approached the barkeep. He loves nights like this.

The sky is bruising, on its way towards twilight as he steps out of the inn again in search of Geralt. He’s not worried; if the witcher balks at being sought out, he didn't give him enough coin for a room and _how_ exactly can he be expected to pay for accommodation when he doesn’t know if Geralt wants a separate room tonight?

“Geralt?” he calls, hoisting his lute onto his back. Roach whinnies softly, almost as if in response, and for this and no other reasons does Jaskier decide to try there first. It’s easier than searching the whole town for him, anyway, no matter how small. “Geralt?”

Just peering in at the stable door, despite the lanterns hung up at regular intervals, there isn’t enough light to see by, so he ventures further. “Geralt? Where are you?”

Roach snorts and the sound is followed by a soft hiss. Jaskier hurries to the end stall and does a double take. “Geralt?”

Roach answers in place of her master, who’s slumped against her with his head buried against her back, only moving in his slow, long breathes.

“Okay,” he tiptoes into the stall. “Um, Geralt, if you don’t mind me asking what the hell-“ he stops when he gets close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. _Oh_. Jaskier takes another step forwards, trying to be as quiet as possible and work out exactly how to ask his next question so it actually gets him somewhere. “Geralt, what do I... tell me what I need to do, okay?”

Geralt grunts, the hand on Roach’s neck unclenching very, very slightly. “You’ve eaten.”

“Yes?”

“Can smell it on you.” The words are languid and muffled in Roach’s coat and Jaskier feels like he’s about to jump off the edge of a precipice. “Okay” he repeats, “Okay, what now?”

“Go back to the inn. I’m staying the night here.”

“Here...” the realisation dawns as naturally as a bucket of ice water down his back. “In the _stables_? Melitele’s tits, Geralt, I can’t allow you to stay out here! Why, for heaven’s sakes?”

“Hmm.” That means ‘go.’

Well Jaskier won’t, he simply won’t go. Tough. “At least explain your reasoning behind this damn madness Geralt, please.”

“Jaskier!” He can’t suppress a gasp when the witcher pulls around to face him- his face is as pale as his hair. His expression changes when he sees his own, mental shutters coming down, perhaps a drawbridge too. “Go,” he growls in that tone which has sent many a man screaming in fear.

Well, if that tone worked on him, Jaskier would have cleared off years ago. He musters his best glare. “Make me.”

With a snarl, Geralt starts towards him, only on the second step he stumbles and he doesn’t take a fourth, instead letting out a shallow gasp and bending over tightly, hunched in on himself and hair hiding his face. Jaskier curses and clears the distance himself. When Geralt doesn’t try to get away from the hand he puts on his shoulder, everything clicks into place.

“How long have you been ill?” he asks softly. _How long have you been hiding from me?_

“Witchers don’t get-“

“ _Geralt_.”

“Two days.”

“Two days?!”

“Wasn’t this bad before,” he pants, leaning over further, until Jaskier worries he’ll keel over on the pot. He starts to say something else and is cut off with a gag, so dry it scrapes the back of his throat.

Part of him wants to return to normalcy, tease him or make a joke about what’ll happen if he ruins his shoes; the other part, the louder part, hums sorrowfully, thinking of how hard it must be for Geralt to be so vulnerable and out of control. He meets Roach’s gaze over the silver crown of Geralt’s head and sighs, moving closer and putting his hand on his back. “Shush.” He gags again, pitching forward without anything coming up. “Shit, you wanted to stay the night in here like this?” On the list of band decisions, this rates at least in the top ten.

Geralt shakes his head wearily, hot as a furnace under his palm. “C’n only smell horses in here.”

It occurs to Jaskier how much trust Geralt’s showing him here, how much of how protective and caring he’s feeling now is a reflection of how Geralt feels about him probably _all_ of the time, how Geralt has put up with him for the past two days without complaint.

He swears again, because heaven knows he wants to spend tonight in a warm, clean-ish, comfortable bed, but he also knows what the right thing to do is. The outlines of a plan are already forming in his mind, dots joining together like constellations.

“Alright,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Louder he adds, “Geralt?”

No answer. Jaskier bends down to face him better. “Geralt?” He nearly asks something stupid like _do you trust me?_ Or _will you let me help you?_ “I know you’re feverish and sick. Are there any other symptoms?” He shakes his head, hair fluttering in the dim light of the stables, almost gold.

A bug, then. Something nasty and horrid that gotten past his mutated immune system and thoughtfully spared Jaskier. He will be miserable, but he will live.

“I'm going to help you, but you’ll need to sit down for a few minutes, alright?”

He nods, slumping onto his arse on the old straw and waiting with his eyes tightly shut.

As best he can, Jaskier retrieves the saddle and their bags still lying in the opposite corner and loads them back onto Roach. He feels sorry for taking her out again, when she’s already been brushed down and settled in for the night, but she puts a stop to this train of thought by nibbling on his hair. He strokes her snout gingerly, trying not to feel foolish as he commands this huge, powerful horse to sit like a dog. She obeys unflinchingly, neighing softly in the direction of her master.

Jaskier is back beside him in a flash, talking equally as quiet, “Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“Climb onto Roach.” The words don’t sound much like an order and for a brief pause he thinks the witcher will refuse. Then, with an almost inaudible sigh, he struggles to his feet and climbs onto his horse without help.

Jaskier leads the pair out of the stable and back onto the cobbled main road, heavy with the falling dusk, then climbs up behind Geralt and urges Roach forward out of the town as fast as he dares.

Seemingly aware of the possibility of public scrutiny, Geralt’s sitting up straight, looking (bar the pale complexion) every bit the big, scary witcher he was when they first met. That is, until the second they cross into the tress and well out of sight: he slumps back against Jaskier, boneless and red-hot.

“Oof!” he exclaims at the added weight, arms going instinctively round Geralt’s waist both to steady him and take over the reins. “Roach, stop!” he orders as Geralt carries on listing sideways, heaving and gagging thickly. He spits onto the ground and Jaskier flinches, holding him tighter. “Just a little while longer,” he soothes as best he can, hoping he won’t fall out the saddle and internally berating himself for not thinking that the motion of horse-rising wouldn’t help in the slightest. Geralt heaves a breathe in and pulls himself together, sitting up- or rather, against- with Jaskier and ordering Roach to continue with a click of his tongue. “Where’re we going?”

“The forest,” he explains, scanning the trees for the clearing he spotted not three hours ago. “It’ll be quieter for you here, and warm enough even without a fire.”

“Hmm.”

He can tell, even in the moonlight, that Geralt’s gone green and grey, soaked with sweat and his breathing almost equal to the speed of a normal human being. _He’s trying not to throw up again_ Jaskier’s brain supplies helpfully. With every passing minute Geralt relaxes more and more against his chest; he wishes he knew if that were good or bad, hoping it means he truly is _relaxing_ , now only the sounds of the forest can reach him. He shudders thrice, teeth chattering, they’re close enough Jaskier can hear the ‘click’ of his jaw as he swallows sown another retch. Unbidden, he tucks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder, “Nearly there,” he promises. “You can rest soon.”

They’ve almost made it to the clearing when the reply comes, rattling and shallow. “You didn’t have to… thank you.”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh, half exasperated, mostly sad, “Yes I did, you idiot. Now wait here whilst I set up camp.”

He says ‘camp’ he means putting the bedroll on one side, closest to the stream, bags on the other side before scrambling to where Geralt’s slumped over Roach’s back. “Alright,” Jaskier murmurs, placing one hand on his shoulder and bracing himself to take the witcher’s weight.” Almost there now, Geralt. Climb down from Roach for me.”

He grunts and slides off Roach’s back, somehow keeping his feet underneath him and standing upright. The second his feet touch the ground however, a heave is pulled from his throat and he slumps down with a moan that turns Jaskier’s blood cold in sympathy. Geralt leans forward and vomits _(at last_ Jaskier thinks) violently.

He makes a soft, gentle noise that is usually saved for kittens and babies and in other circumstances would get him a dirty look.

The fact that it _doesn’t_ just goes to show how bad his friend feels.

“Shush,” he knees down next to him and rubs his back, cringing at the smell. Over their heads, Roach whinnies, as reluctant to be caught in the messy crossfire as she is to step back and be further away from her master. Jaskier takes a moment to stroke her leg with his pare hand. “It’s okay” he tells witcher and horse alike. “Just let it out, alright?” The only response is more vomit. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate before holding Geralt’s long hair back.

When it’s all over, Jaskier reacts quickly, refusing to let geralt _think_ and fall into a pit of embarrassment. He pats his shoulder, once, and then aids him to stand. As soon as he’s upright, Geralt bends over and gags again. “Oof” Jaskier says as he takes his weight. “Sorry, geralt, I’m sorry, but you’re nearly there now. Just got to get to bed.” Or the closest Jaskier could make on the ground in the forest. “Just lie down now, that’s it,” he coaxes as the witcher staggers blearily towards where he put their bedrolls. “No one’ll see you here.”

“Roach.” Geralt bites back gasps as he falls to his knees and buries his head in the blanket.

“I’ll take care of Roach.” Roach snorts, as if to say _I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much_ but doesn’t protest when Jaskier ties her to a tree within reach of the stream and lots of green grass. She noses his shoulder for a minute and he laughs at the two of them: being looked after by a horse, even if it is Roach. “I know,” her whispers in her ear, probably still loud enough for geralt to catch anyway. “I’m worried about him too.”

Though he’s loathe to admit it even to himself, Jaskier can’t stand how small he looks, how pale he looks. Funny, he didn’t think, after all these years together, there was anything left to horrify him.

Apparently not.

Cracking his back and thinking longingly of the beds back at the inn, Jaskier rummages through their packs to find Geralt’s canteen and tread carefully over to his friend.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t look up.

He kneels down and shakes his shoulder, “You need to drink this.”

Choking down another heave, Geralt shakes his head without looking up, “Can’t.”

“It’s better than just dry-heaving,” he coaxes. “You can’t afford to get dehydrated, Geralt. I’ll go back to the town tomorrow and get some tea. But you need to drink now.”

“Can’t.”

“Just a sip,” he begs. “For me?”

Glaring dolefully, he sits up on one elbow and snatches the canteen away. The first sip goes well, too well, because he eagerly takes a second. By the third, he is tiring and passes the canteen back, green tinge rising on his cheeks, falling back down with a pained noise.

Jaskier pu;;s the blanket up over his shoulders, “Do you need anything else?”

He hunches in on himself further. “Go back to the inn.”

He rolls his eyes because _this man_ , “That’s not happening. You’re sick.”

“Witchers don’t get-“ he heaves on the last word, the paltry amount of water he kept down coming back up two inches away from ruining his blanket. He puts a supportive arm round his back as he rides it out, then sticks the canteen in front of his face before he can lie back down again.

“Another sip. Come _on_ , Geralt, just one. To get the taste out your mouth, at least.”

Grumbling, he does.

In the dark, Jaskier can’t tell if he’s red from fever or just embarrassment. “You know,” he murmurs, pitching his voice as gentle as possible as he puts the canteen away, “You don’t have to be embarrassed because you’re feeling crappy.”

“Hmm. I’m vomiting, not crappy.”

He laughs, even though it’s probably too loud for Geralt’s sensitive hearing at the moment. It’s rare for his witcher to joke and he appreciates every opportunity when he can. “If you’re up to being snarky, I have no doubt you’ll survive the night.” No answer, though he didn’t really expect one. Rearranging the blankets again, he clambers into his own bed-roll, right next to Geralt, listing to the forest breathing around them.

Eventually, with his back to him, Geralt shifts and murmurs: “Jaskier.”

“What is it?”

“Thank you for… Thank you.”

He smiles so hard his cheeks hurt, “It’s okay. Go to sleep.” Geralt settles back down and Jaskier lies back, seeing how many stars he can count between each of his slow breaths.

***

Jaskier wakes up and immediately knows he shouldn’t be awake. The sun isn’t pressing onto his eyelids and there’s no screaming that signifies imminent danger, just the blue night sky aove and geralt shifting beside him- Geralt. Ah. He opens his eyes at the same time Geralt opens his mouth and vomits onto the grass. He looks up, meets Jaskier’s eyes and says “Fuck,” before heaving again.

Swearing as awareness comes back to him, he scrambles to his side, pulling his hair out of the way of the mess pooling below him. “Shush,” he soothes.

“Fuck” he gasps again, writhing under his touch as if he’s half of the mind to get away.

Jaskier waits until it’s over- which means when he’s turned to dry heaving instead of actual vomiting- then carefully guides him as he tries to lie back down; so he’s slumped with his head in Jaskier’s lap instead of on the cold ground. An apology, that he feels so shit and there’s nothing Jaskier can do to help.

Geralt’s scarily complacent and lies down without a fuss, even as Jaskier starts to properly braid his hair. The way his sisters used to do when they were younger. Geralt groans as he digs his fingers into the base of his skull, “’S nice.”

“Oh?” Jaskier pauses, hand cupping the back of his head. He doesn’t think Geralt’s ever articulated anything he finds nice before. He chalks it up to the fever and refuses to comment for fear of making him clam up again.

“Felt nice on Roach too,” he mumbles, words beginning to slur together as his eyes start to close again. “Y’arms were warm… was nice.”

 _If only you were in your right mind_ he thinks fondly. “You thought that was good? Well let me just…” Tentatively, mindful the witcher’s still capable of killing him one-handed even infirm, he sneaks his hand underneath Geralt’s shirt and starts to rub his stomach in slow, easy circles. “Good?” He wishes he could see Geralt’s face. His expressions are a lot easier to read than his silences.

Geralt relaxes like the tide going out, “Good.”

Jaskier smiles, watching the sun begin to rise as Geralt goes back to sleep in his lap. 


End file.
